I remember the sky going dark pretty suddenly.

Not eclipse-like dark (as if witnessing one recently qualifies me to make the comparison) but a huge contrast from a few minutes earlier.

We were not expecting severe weather at 3:00 in the afternoon, yet, from behind my windshield, I witnessed greenish gray skies develop quickly over Lincoln Avenue.

Then splat…A flock or school or pack or some bigger gathering — of birds, maybe Canadian geese flying back north after winter – dropped an incredible payload onto my car.

I drive a 2013, gray Toyota, so non-descript, it doesn’t have to be in a mall parking lot at Christmas, for me to have problems spotting it.

Now, It seemed the birds (and they don’t call them fowl for nothing) were taking target practice at my expense. Between the roof, hood, trunk lid and lights, there must have been around fifty silver dollar-sized splotches of bird doo on my car.

I was really busy for the next couple days and knew I couldn’t get in to a decent car wash for a while. Besides,  I didn’t think the unattended, discounted with a fill-up, places you’d see attached to a gas station, would do much good. And, I didn’t think I could properly scrape the crud off myself.

I knew that bird droppings were supposed to be toxic on a car’s clearcoat and even on their basic paint job. I just had to wait a couple days. I prayed for rain.

I checked online for well-reviewed hand car washes,  There was one close to where I lived. At only $15.99, I wondered why I had not visited it before.

Okay, my car is old, but it is a reliable “city” car.  That’s what I remind myself. Largely, that means you learn not to get upset about blemishes on your bumper.

I have a deeded parking space behind my building but no garage. No fast food packaging can be found in front or back seats, but I haven’t thrown away the empty travel-sized container of Purell in the console that’s gone on errands with me for a year.

There is loose change galore in different nooks and crannies, and, I imagine, old credit cards, long since reported as lost, behind the seats.  I’m not “careless,’’ but I am far from a careful or caring owner.

I remember when I bought a new car over a decade ago. The dealer invited customers to come in, without an appointment, check in with the service department, and have them wash their car.

It meant driving a few miles but the wash was free.

I liked the feeling of having a clean car, not for status (after all, it was a Jetta, not a Tesla). It stirred up some sort of pride.

I got the Toyota after an accident with my VW. At the time, it was a late model, low mileage,  “used” car, destined to become a “city” car.

I didn’t miss an oil change or routine inspection, but I don’t remember washing it or even vacuuming the front seat after giving in to an unscheduled craving left crumbs. I rented bigger, heavier cars if I went on a road trip.

To me, Donatella Corolla (like all my cars, I still named it) was transportation not a partner.

And, here I was at Ruby Carwash, watching two men with buckets, guide me to the waiting area where I could watch them follow their protocol; open all its doors, suds her up, spray, vacuum, and wipe the different surfaces with freshly laundered rags.

They gave proper attention to the task in front of them while still conscious of the Hyundai and SUV of unknown brand that followed my car in line. They aimed to be efficient but didn’t treat me or my car differently because I didn’t come in every week or because Donatella had long since lost that “new car smell.”

I felt bad. It took an unearthly unloading of bird crap for me to bring her in. It’s not just new things or impressive things or free things that deserve to be treated well or responded to with gratitude.

I left a fiver in the tip box.

Taking care of the things (and people) that take care of you is no small thing.